


the memory of an ember

by hereyeswerestars



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1920s, Anastasia AU, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, More tags to be added, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny!Steve, Slow Burn, buck is dimitri, steve is anya, that tag just showed up and it made me happy so i added it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereyeswerestars/pseuds/hereyeswerestars
Summary: look at that ... it ain't a sugar daddy au lol .so i love both the musical and movie anastasia , & i also love stucky and decided the lack of stucky fics i've posted needed to change . so here ya go , enjoy & leave a comment if u love it :))





	1. prologue

 

_ 1907, Yusupov Palace _

 

“Why must you go, Nana?” Stefan cried, clutching tight to his grandmother’s chest. 

“I’ve stayed too long here.” She stroked his unruly blonde hair and sighed heavily. 

Stefan frowned. “Well, I can come with you!” 

“Oh, Stevie.” Maria pulled away from him, using a finger to tilt his chin up. “Wherever I go, you’ll always be with me.” 

Stefan pouted, about to protest, but Maria reached behind her and held out an exquisitely carved sphere--a music box.

Stefan gasped, eyes wide as he watched his Nana carefully unlock it and hand it to him. “It’s our lullaby,” she explained, as a melodic song began to play. “When you hear it, think of an old woman who loves you very much.” 

 

“ _ Far away, long ago _

_ Glowing dim as an ember _

_ Things my heart used to know _

_ Things it yearns to remember _

 

_ And a song someone sings _

_ Once upon a December.”  _

 

“Oh Nana, I love it!” Stefan held tightly to the beautiful box, watching with awe as the two dancing figures slowly whirled. 

“I have one more thing for you, Stevie.” Maria unclasped the golden chain around her neck and passed it over Stefan’s head. The boy giggled and held the heavy stopwatch close to his eye--there was an inscription!

“Together in Paris,” he read quietly, then smiled up at his grandmother. “As soon as I turn eighteen, I’ll be on the train to you!” 

Maria laughed. “Yes, we can watch the ballet, walk on the bridge named after your grandfather. Everything will be perfect, because I have you.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, turned off the oil lamp, and bid him goodnight.

Stefan fell asleep a content seven year-old prince, not knowing this was the last time he’d see his Nana for a very long time. 


	2. a ghost in the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy ! unbeta'd , so any mistakes r my own . ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “the irony of life  
> is our greatest fear is to forget,  
> yet it’s the only certain fate  
> that anything has ever met.  
> we know one day our earth  
> will find itself victim to time,  
> that nothing will be left  
> to tell of your story or mine  
> and still through life we rush  
> scrabbling for something to remember  
> perish the thought that ash be ash  
> and not the memory of an ember.”
> 
> erin hanson

_1927, Leningrad_

Steve looked up at the reddening evening sky, sighing heavily. His boss wanted the whole street cleaned, down to the Neva, but it was growing colder and darker each second, his hands were blistering through his gloves, and his stomach ached like a rat was eating him alive. He turned back to his broom, adjusting his grip on the splintering wood.  _Remember what you’re here for,_  he told himself, always aware of the heavy weight of the stopwatch around his neck, the reminder on the back.  _Someone_  was waiting for him in Paris. He didn’t know who, or why, but he would save every ruble, pick up every shift and go days without eating to ensure he could find—

  
 _Bang_. A single gunshot rang out into the darkening sky, and suddenly Steve was on the ground, hands over his ears. It was his nightmares all over again, watching the people he loved die in front of him while he was powerless to stop it.

  
“No!” Steve shouted, crawling to his knees.

  
Suddenly, there was a large, warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. This wasn’t how the nightmares went.

  
“It was a truck backfiring, comrade. That's all it was.” Another warm hand pulled him to his feet, and he was suddenly face to face with Brock Rumlow, the commanding officer in charge of keeping the Bolshevik peace in Leningrad. Steve gaped at him, equal parts terrified and confused that this beautiful man was paying attention to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Those days are over, neighbor against neighbor,” Brock continued, Steve barely registered the words as he stared at the handsome officer’s face. “There's nothing to be afraid of anymore.” He picked up Steve’s broom and handed it to him, snapping Steve back to reality. Rumlow patted his shoulder, then frowned. “You're shaking. There's a tea shop just steps from here, let me—”

 

“Thank you,” Steve interrupted, finally finding his voice. He staggered away from Rumlow, but to his dismay the officer followed him, hands in his pockets.

 

“What’s your hurry?” he asked, smirking.

  
“I—I can’t lose this job. They’re not easy to come by. But thank you,” Steve stammered, mouth dry and heart pounding. Never before had he even had a conversation with an officer, and now, here was the most respected man in Leningrad, touching his shoulder and smirking at him. He walked away quickly, glancing over his shoulder.

 

“I’m here every day,” Rumlow called after him, smiling broadly.

  
Steve hurried into the square, mind reeling. Was Rumlow flirting with him? No, that was ridiculous. He began sweeping again, but shouts and raucous laughter caught his ear. He looked up to see an attractive young man wearing a tattered blue coat standing on the fountain’s edge, shouting something to the crowd of beggars below him. Steve edged closer, curious.

 

“They can call it Leningrad, but it will always be Petersburg. New name, same empty stomachs!”

 

Steve’s eyes widened and he went back to sweeping, the man’s words ringing in his ears. He was brave, to be shouting such truths in the same square Rumlow patrolled. And beautiful. His hair was dark, and tied back in a messy knot at the base of his skull, but a few strands hung loose to frame his strong jaw and startling blue-gray eyes. Steve found himself staring straight into them, frozen in place. Then the man jumped from the fountain and strode up to him.

  
“Hello comrade,” he said, smirking the same way Rumlow had only minutes earlier. “How’s Saint Petersburg treating you?”

 

“It’s called Leningrad now,” Steve said quietly, sweeping at a stain on the cobblestone.

  
“Hail our brave new land,” he retorted. “Are you really satisfied with your job? Do you get enough to eat?”

“I do just fine when anarchists aren’t talking to me,” Steve replied, straightening his spine and glaring at the brunet.

“Oh really? Try eating my—”

“James, stop antagonizing the kid. He’s just doing his job.” A shorter, well-dressed man strolled up to the man— _James_ —and grabbed his arm. “See you around, comrade,” he said to Steve, smiling. Then he yanked James after him and they vanished into the crowds, James glancing over his shoulder to try and catch the street sweeper’s eye, but he was gone.

 

***

 

“Clint, I’ve been thinking about the Prince Stefan,” James said, nudging him with his elbow. They sat beside each other in a seedy bar, several empty shot glasses before them and the only light a few flickering oil lamps.

  
“Jesus, not you too. It’s too early for this,” Clint groaned, laying his head on the bar and closing his eyes.

  
“It’s midnight. And besides, he may be our ticket out of Russia! His grandmama is offering a fuckin’ huge reward, we’d be idiots if we didn’t take the chance!”

 

Clint squinted up at James. “It sounds risky.”

 

James rolled his eyes. “We’re con artists, everything we do is risky!”

 

“Yes, but…” Clint sighed and glanced at his left arm, and James suddenly understood his hesitance. “Given your past, I don’t—”

 

“I can keep personal shit separate,” James scowled. “Do you want to get out of Russia or not?” he gestured for the barmaid to fill his glass with his right hand. “Besides, it’s not like we’re going to find the real Prince.”

 

But as he tossed back another shot, a pair of brilliant turquoise eyes swam into James’ vision, and he had the strangest suspicion there was more than what meets the eye when it came to the little street sweeper.

 

***

 

Steve frowned at the canvas before him, tongue between his teeth. The woman he was sketching—Veronika or something—had lopsided breasts, several missing teeth, and a large wart on her cheek, and he had to turn her into something beautiful. (Without offending her by turning her into a completely different person.)

 

“Stay still, please,” he said, glancing up to find his model had changed position drastically.

  
“This is uncomfortable,” she whined as she draped her curvaceous body across a plush lounge chair.

  
Steve, crouched on the tile floor, bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her. He spent a few minutes retracing a stubborn finger, and then stood up, joints creaking.

 

“All done,” he said, weary smile not reaching his eyes.

  
“Thank God,” the woman groaned. She grabbed her dress and pulled it on, then walked to the door.

 

“Wait—you said you knew something about acquiring travel papers?” Steve called, striding towards her.

 

“Oh, yeah. There’s a man, Barnes. He can get them for you… if you’ve got the  _prowess_.” she waggled her eyebrows, and Steve flushed. So the man was also a goluboi. Good to know.

  
“Where can I find him?”

  
“If he ain’t shouting about revolutions in the square, he’s at the Yusupov Palace.”

  
“Thank you,” Steve said, excitement strengthening his weary limbs. Yes, he worked two jobs and slept under a bridge, but now he had hope. He had a literal way to get to Paris, to find the person who loved him. If only he could remember their names…

  
  
***

 

  
“My name is Stefan Nikolai Romanov, and I’ve  _missed_ —“

  
“Stop,” Bucky sighed, exhaling cigarette smoke into the large and chilly room. The prostitute before him crossed his arms.

  
“What’s wrong? Am I not pretty enough for you?”

  
Clint barked out a laugh. The man before them was pale and blonde, but that was where any resemblance to the lost prince stopped. His teeth were yellow and cracked, one eye seemed permanently focused upward, and he walked with a limp that spoke of trouble at home—or work.

  
“We’ll let you know,” Bucky said. Clint led the man out and Bucky shouted, “Next!”

 

“I’m looking for Barnes?” A strangely familiar voice called.

 

Bucky turned to see the scrawny street sweeper from earlier standing awkwardly in the doorway, engulfed by a huge brown coat.

  
“Are you seriously here to audition?” He demanded, leaning against the wall and dropping his cigarette. He watched as the embers turned dark.

 

“What? No, someone told me I could find travel papers here.”

  
Clint came up behind Steve, eyebrows raised. “We don’t give travel papers away like handouts,” he said. “Do you have money?”

  
“Wait, who said we would give him anything in the first place?” Bucky exclaimed, pushing off the wall and striding towards the two men.

  
“I have some saved,” the street sweeper said, glaring up at Bucky. Christ, he was so tiny. (He was really only a few inches shorter than Bucky, but his underfed and scrawny appearance, along with the huge coat, made him appear almost childlike.)

  
“Travel papers aren’t cheap. Go somewhere else.” Bucky turned away, but Clint—goddamn him—kept talking to the man.

  
“What’s your name?” He asked as Bucky sat down and lit another cig.

  
“I don’t know,” the man replied quietly.

  
Bucky looked up sharply. “What do you mean you don’t know? Everyone has a name!”

  
The blonde shot him a glare. “They told me I had amnesia at the hospital. Called me Steve.”

  
Clint pulled up a chair and gestured for Steve to sit. Bucky rolled his eyes.

 

“Who, your parents?”

  
“No—I mean, I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

 

That got Bucky’s attention. “The hell do you mean, you don’t remember?”

  
Steve sat up, thin shoulders straight. “All I know is what the nurses at the hospital told me. They said I was found at the side of a road. There were other footprints, but no one else was there. I think I was seventeen, so…” Steve frowned and counted off his fingers. “It’s been ten years now. Ten years, and all I want is to go to Paris and find the person waiting for me.”

  
Clint and Bucky exchanged looks.

  
“If your memory is gone, how do you know someone’s waiting for you?” Clint asked gently.

  
“This.” Steve pulled off his brown scarf and lifted a necklace over his head. The chain held a gold stopwatch. He handed it to Clint.

  
“Together in Paris,” he read aloud, looking at Bucky. “So, you got family there or something?”

  
Bucky was silent, chin on his hand as he studied the enigma before him.

  
“I don’t know. All I know is someone is waiting for me, and I’ve waited long enough. It’s time for me to go to Paris.”

 

Clint nodded and handed back the necklace.

  
“Clint, a word?” Bucky asked, standing. “Alone?” He added pointedly. Steve watched as the two of them left the room and went to the kitchen.

  
“So?” Clint asked, crossing his arms.

  
“There’s something about this boy. I think…” Bucky trailed off, shaking his head.

  
“I agree,” Clint said. “Do you think he could be it?”

  
Bucky scoffed. “Him?” He’s a scrawny street rat!” But he knew there was more to Steve than an irritable street sweeper. (But he was quite pretty, when he looked past the dirt smudged across his cheek and the overall scruffy, underfed and overworked appearance.

  
“He could easily pass as royalty, if we fed him, gave him a bath and a new suit,” Clint mused.

  
Bucky nodded. “It’s worth a shot. We take him to Paris, bring him to the old lady and see if she’s gone crazy enough to think it’s her prince. We’ll be rich, and he’ll find his dream.” He looked past Clint to the main room, where Steve was standing by a boarded up window, studying it.

  
“Okay. We found ourselves a prince,” Clint grinned. They walked back to the once-beautiful room.

  
“It so happens we’re going to Paris ourselves!” Bucky announced. Steve didn’t move.

  
“I’ve been here before,” he murmured, turning from the broken window to the two conmen.

  
“What? That’s impossible,” Bucky said, frowning. “We’ve been here for years.”

  
“No… you weren’t there,” he said, looking up at the faraway ceiling, where a cracked and faded mosaic was barely visible.

  
“Everyone looked so fancy, but me and Alexei just wanted to play outside. I—“

  
Steve stopped talking and stared straight at Bucky. “It’s gone,” he gasped. “I remembered—for a moment, it was there—“ he collapsed on the chair and buried his head in his hands.

Clint gaped at Steve, then looked to Bucky.

  
“I know,” Bucky mouthed. “You talk to him,” he gestured, going to the door.

  
“Where are you going?” His partner demanded, going to Steve’s side but frowning at Bucky.

  
“I’m going to find him some nicer clothes,” Bucky replied. He pulled on a dark coat and was gone, vanishing into the swirling snow.

  
“So, Steve,” Clint began, but the man was already standing up.

  
“Sorry, I just— I get these flashes of moments, these fragments of memory and I think I’m finally going to remember everything and then it’s gone,” Steve explained, a heaviness in his voice that Clint was too familiar with.

  
“Well, I’m sure going to the City of Light will jog your memory,” Clint smiled, clapping Steve’s shoulder and frowning at how bony it felt.

  
“You want something to eat?”

  
Steve shook his head quickly. “No, I’m okay.” His stomach growled under his coat, but he coughed and hoped it masked the sound. “I should probably get going, thanks for your time—“

 

“Woah, wait a second! You can stay here now,” Clint said, moving in front of Steve’s path. “We have extra floor space,” he added with a wry grin.

 

Steve paused. “I—I don’t want to impose.”

  
“Look, kid. You really aren’t.” Clint pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. “Want one?”

  
“I don’t smoke,” he replied, fidgeting with his hands.

 

Clint snorted. “Innocent little thing, are ya?”

 

Steve glared at him through lowered brows. “You don’t know me.”

 

“No, I don’t. But if we’re going to be traveling across Russia together, I need to know if I can trust you.”

  
Steve paused and looked up. “You can.”

  
“Okay. Now you can sleep wherever you’ve been hiding out, but it will make it easier on us if you’re here. That way we can prepare you.”

 

“For what?”

  
“For your introduction as the Grand Duke Stefan Nikolai Romanov.”

  
Steve gaped at him. “What? You think I’m the prince?”

  
Clint nodded. “I think you have the potential to be. And what a coincidence it is that the Grand Duchess is looking for her lost nephew as we speak.”

  
“I…” Steve looked around the abandoned palace, head bombarded with thoughts. The prince was dead. There was no way in hell it could be him. And yet—

  
“I need to get some stuff from my—lodgings,” Steve said awkwardly, not wanting to admit he slept under a bridge. “I’ll be back soon.”

  
“Alright. You know the way back?” Clint asked, throwing some logs on the ancient fireplace and trying to start them with his cigarette.

  
“Yeah.” He walked out of the strange room, completely unprepared for the icy winds that hit his face, his hands—anywhere uncovered. He pulled his cap tightly to his head and buried his hands in his pockets, squaring his shoulders against the wind and making his way towards the bridge, a ghost in the wind.

 

***

 

“Stevie! We thought you got mugged in a ditch or something,” a man called, pulling off his cap.

 

“Hey! Give it back,” Steve growled, glaring at the man.

  
“Not unless you say please,” he grinned. His face was dirty and his shoes were full of holes—he wouldn’t last the night, Steve realized. And it scared him that he didn’t care.

 

“Please,” Steve glowered. “Sasha, come on.”

  
Sasha smiled cheekily and ruffled Steve’s carefully combed hair.

 

  
“You always act like you’re better than us. But you sleep in this hellhole, you take whatever shit gets thrown at you and you don’t complain. I’m going to miss you.”

 

  
“You going somewhere?” Steve asked, only half-interested. He was gathering up the few belongings he had—a change of clothes, a comb, and a notebook. All his art supplies were safely stashed in Veronika’s cupboard. He didn’t like the woman, but she had no use for canvases and paints so she left it alone.

 

“No. But you are. Found a pretty officer to settle in with?”

 

Barnes’ face swam before his eyes and Steve flushed.

 

“No,” he snapped.

 

Sasha laughed delightedly. “Tell me all about him! I need some good news, today was terrible.”

 

Steve was carrying his bundle and ready to go, but he sighed and suffered through another twenty minutes of Sasha’s complaining. The prostitute was the only person he could really call his friend, and Steve barely trusted him.

 

“Alright, time to walk the streets,” Sasha finally grinned, but it didn’t meet his sad eyes.

 

“I’ll miss you, Stevie.”

 

Steve just nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell the man to stop calling him that, that his nana was the only one who got away with the nickname. “Good luck,” Steve said, and walked away, wondering where the thought of a nana had come from.

 

The walk was long, and in the dark Steve was soon getting completely lost.

 

“You good?” The man from before—James—ambled up the street towards him, hands in his pockets and smiling like he didn’t have a care in the world. Steve ignored the stupid flop his heart made and

looked straight ahead, not meeting the brunet’s eyes.

 

“I’m fine. Go away.”

 

“Well, seeing as we’re going to the same place, it would be quite unnecessary for me to go away.” Bucky said there last two words in a high-pitched imitation of Steve’s voice, and the shorter man whirled around and shoved Bucky. He didn’t expect it, and went flying into a pile of snow the street sweeper had made earlier that day.

 

“What the fuck!” Bucky cried, floundering in the dirty snow, his clothes quickly getting soaked.

 

Steve snorted and kept walking. This time, the man didn’t follow him, and when Steve opened the door to the Palace the two men were talking in front of the roaring fire, and stopped when he walked in.

 

“Glad to see you made it back alive. Barnes here nearly froze to death,” Clint said, a knowing glint in his eyes.

 

Steve muttered something under his breath and clutched his bundle tighter to his chest. 

 

“Where do I sleep?” Steve asked cautiously, not meeting Bucky’s eyes.

 

“Well, certainly not with me. I don’t want snow down my shirt,” Bucky smirked.

 

Clint shot Bucky a glare and gestured to the room around them. “Me and James sleep in here next to the fire. You’re welcome to sleep here or find another room, but it gets pretty cold and none of the other rooms have fireplaces.”

 

“I’ll manage,” Steve said, and went exploring. Many of the rooms were boarded up, but he found a kitchen with a pile of straw he could curl up on. He did so, back to the wall, but he couldn’t sleep. All he could think about was the men in the other room, their strange plan to dress him up as a dead prince and parade him around Paris.

 

Steve wouldn’t do it, he thought. The person he was meeting was probably just a regular citizen, like him. But as he drifted off, ghosts came to his side, pulling at his clothes, begging him to stay or leave or just remember.

 

He woke up drenched in sweat.

 

“Sleep well, prince?” The voice he was beginning to hate inquired.

 

He looked up and scowled at James’ beaming face.

 

“I’m not your prince,” he said, voice hoarse from sleep.

 

“Too bad, today you’re becoming him.” The brunet shoved a plate into Steve’s hands.

 

“I made toast,” Bucky said, and there was undeniable pride in his voice.

 

Steve stared at the plate in his lap. Was this an attempt at… what? Friendship? A new start?

 

Steve sighed and took a bite, highly aware of the man’s eyes watching him closely.

 

He moaned in surprise. “This is good!” There was something familiar, something he hadn’t tasted in a while—

 

“I, ah, borrowed some honey from a vendor who won’t miss it. You ready to become royalty?”

 

Steve frowned at the implication that Bucky stole as he stood. “Royalty don’t “borrow” food.”

 

“Yes, because everything is handed to them straight from the pockets of the starving.”

 

Bucky smirked at Steve, arms crossed.

 

Steve shoved the plate in Bucky’s chest and strode past him. “Royalty starved too, during the Revolution.”

 

He felt Bucky’s stare on the back of his neck as he walked into the cathedral-like room.

 

“How do you become the person you’ve forgotten you ever were?” he asked the empty room.

 


End file.
